


Immolate

by M J Holyoke (wholeyolk)



Category: X-Men (Movieverse), X-Men (Original Timeline Movies), X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Scene, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dark Phoenix Jean Grey, Darkfic, F/M, Involuntary Arousal, Mind Control, Nonconathon 2018, Penis In Vagina Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-07
Updated: 2018-07-07
Packaged: 2019-05-15 21:16:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14798133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wholeyolk/pseuds/M%20J%20Holyoke
Summary: Wherein Jean Grey’s resurrection at Alkali Lake happened a bit differently.





	Immolate

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wipvanwrinkle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wipvanwrinkle/gifts).



_Scott. Scott. Scott!_

He barely eats anymore. He hardly ever sleeps. All he ever seems to do these days is remember _her_.

The love of his life. Now dead. Dead and gone.

Jean.

Oh, Jean …

She may be gone, but she is not forgotten. He can’t stop hearing the sound of her voice in his head. She is screaming in pain. She is calling his name. Over and over and over again. Constantly. Sometimes, he isn’t sure she’s even really gone.

He tells himself it’s because he was never able to say goodbye properly. He tells himself that he is going back to Alberta to seek closure. He tells himself that he will look once more upon the flat, gray surface of Alkali Lake—the site of Jean’s watery grave—and he is going to grieve. Then, he will lay his ghosts to rest. After he does that, there will be quiet. Blessed quiet. The voice in his head will go silent. And finally, she’ll be gone. Really, truly gone.

But that voice doesn’t go silent. It only seems to get louder as he nears the lake. And louder, and louder, and louder. Louder, even, than the roar of the engine of the motorcycle he used to get here.

It’s deafening.

He’s never had a migraine, but he’s seen the ads on television just like any other twenty-first century American, and so he imagines that this is what a migraine must feel like. The pounding of his skull, the knifing pain at his temples, then the voice in his head yet again, deafening, and starbursts of light explode behind his eyelids, like neutron bombs, like his head is going to crack and shatter itself open wide if he doesn’t release it now, release it, release it, _release it_ …!

Pure energy pours out from his eyes and into the water. He roars with all of his pain and frustration and grief—

And as he puts his glasses back on, something deep down below, so far down on the lakebed that even his energy blasts cannot reach it, is stirring, yawning, sighing, _awakening_ —

Blinding light, burning as bright as the heart of the sun, and a scream, like a giant bird of prey—

He is knocked backward, fifteen yards, maybe further, right off of his feet. But when he sits up and looks at the edge of the bluff where he’d so recently been standing—

_She is there._

Oh, God.

Her hair is long, longer than it has been since they were teenagers. Otherwise, she looks healthy and wholly unharmed.

“Jean?” he asks.

“Scott?” This isn’t a voice in his head saying his name this time. This is her _real_ voice.

“How?”

“I … don't know.” 

She steps closer. Her expression is mild, but there is heat coming off of her body. It feels like he is standing too close to a blazing bonfire, an inferno. He thinks he can feel his skin start to blister.

She steps closer still. Almost close enough to kiss. “I want to see your eyes,” she says. “Take these off.”

She reaches for his glasses.

“No!” he protests, panicked. “No,” he repeats. Not even Jean Grey can control the uncontrollable mutant superpower of one Scott Summers. They both know that. They tried it in the past once or twice under the Professor’s supervision and failed—miserably. Jean had been unable to hold it. She’d … lost control … and then …

“Trust me. I can control it now,” she assures him, answering his thoughts as much as his spoken words.

He wants to believe her, but he can’t. Reflexively, he squeezes his eyes shut; the habits of a lifetime are hard to break. He can feel but not see it when she takes his glasses off.

“Open them. You can’t hurt me.”

Reluctantly, he obeys.

 _And. Nothing. Happens_.

There is only Jean’s beautiful, beloved face before him, filling his vision, his universe. Close enough to kiss.

Yes, they kiss. Her mouth is sweet, the nip of teeth on lips and tongue against tongue instantly and utterly familiar, and they attack each other with the ardor of their long separation. She is hot and hungry, grinding her body aggressively into his own, and it is exciting him, igniting him.

“Yes,” she says, into his mouth, into his mind.

His eyes are open, so he sees it the moment it happens, the moment Jean uses her powers to tear his clothes away. No, “tear” isn’t the right word; they dissolve, disintegrate, dematerialize down to the atomic level. One instant, he’s fully dressed. The next, all of his clothes are gone. Just gone. And so are hers.

“Hey, hold on—” he protests. They are out in the open. They should wait until they’re somewhere private. Anybody could see …

 _I won’t wait. I refuse to wait_. Her voice is all in his head again this time, and he hears the whip-crack snap of her anger.

“No, not like this— Jean— Urgh!”

He realizes his dick is hard. Rock hard. Aching. Leaking. It hadn’t been a moment ago, he is sure. It’s Jean—in his head—forcing his body respond to her while his conscious mind has its doubts.

 _I refuse to wait_.

He tries to extricate himself from her embrace, but he can’t. He tries to voice more protests, but he can’t speak. She cants her hips forward and opens her thighs. He is sliding inside of her, and he can’t stop himself, can’t make himself stop—he’s thrusting desperately into her tight, wet heat.

He wants to stop, but he can’t make himself stop. He tries to tell her he loves her, but he can’t even do that. She wraps her arms around his back, fingernails sharp as a raptor’s talons digging into his backside, and her legs tangle with his legs. Reflexively, he tries to brace his feet against the ground, the better to support her weight, and realizes he can’t do that either. They’re floating in midair.

He still can’t make himself stop; she is in total possession of his bodily functions. So, instead of stopping, he’s thrusting faster, more violently, driving his dick into her like a piston, and she hisses a wordless response of approbation, her hips slamming perfectly in sync back into him. Ah, that delicious stretch, the friction, the clench and release of muscular walls—wait, is he also feeling what she feels? He is! He tenses, shuddering, and no, no, no, he can’t still make himself stop—

When he comes, it hurts. It actually _hurts_.

And his orgasm makes her come, too, and it’s like the sun is going nova—it feels like immolation.

 

* * *

 

The Blackbird descends and comes in for a landing on the rocky lakeshore.

Storm steps off the boarding ramp. A thick mist covers everything, and she can feel the charge in the air, an unnatural excess of atmospheric ionic particles … like something has been burning.

Her booted feet make the gravel beneath them crunch. Pebbles rise straight up into the air in her wake, and so does the condensation on the leaves of the nearby plants. She hardly notices any of it.

Her gaze is fixated on Scott’s sunglasses, the pair with the bespoke ruby quartz lenses. They are floating. Scott, without his glasses …? Goddess, no! That is dangerous prospect at best, and without them, moreover, he is vulnerable.

She reaches out to take them into hand. Yes, these are Scott’s. No doubt about it. But where, then, is _Scott_ himself?

She’d felt that burst of telepathic energy. Hunger, joy, passion. Victory. _Fury_. They all had back at the Mansion. Even Professor Xavier hadn’t known what it might portend, but he knew it was coming from Alkali Lake—and that it somehow involved Scott.

Well, perhaps it was time to see things a bit more clearly.

She uses her powers to part the mist like a veil … and sees them.

Scott, naked and sprawled out on the ground, alive but unconscious. Jean, equally naked and crouched possessively over him, her eyes threatening. She stands, and Storm watches as Scott’s spent cock slips out of her. There is a tell-tale shine of pearly fluid on her inner thighs.

“Jean?! What did you do to Scott?!” Storm gasps.

This is not the Jean Grey Storm once knew. Never mind for now how she could be here. _This_ Jean Grey is feral, dangerous—and blazing with dark fire.

 

* * *

_~ The End ~_

* * *


End file.
